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I've tried to write this blog post for over two months since the passing of my beloved dog, Bear, but every time I sat at the computer, all I could do was cry my grief, the screen remaining blank and blurry in my vision.
Even now, it hurts to remember and it hurts to write about my dear companion in the past tense. How I hate those words: dead, gone, passed away. If I don't think about him not being here the intense sorrow won't come just a dull ache of loss that's been weighing on my chest since his death.
Technically, he was my sister, Cari's, dog. She was the one that found him on the local SPCA's website and decided just by seeing his smiling face that he had to come into our family. But, it wasn't long before his big goofy grin and gentle nature me won me over too. He was the first dog that I'd ever lived with as an adult and before he came into my life, I didn't quite understand the attraction and affection people feel towards their dogs.
Now I do. There is no other love than that of a furry being who forgives you your short temper when you lash out with harsh words because you've had a bad day, who doesn't question your dubious fashion sense, doesn't care if you've gained weight or haven't plucked your eyebrows in months. He loves with his full heart and his sloppy kisses just because you are you. You are enough as you are to be granted the blessing of dog love.
Bear wasn't a perfect dog by any stretch of the imagination. He had terrible breath no matter how many raw bones or carrots we gave him or how many times he had his teeth cleaned. He had reoccurring stomach troubles and the results of his bouts of diarrhea weren't pretty especially since he had long hair and a big bushy tail. I called him Stinky Bum more often than I called him Bear.
He was afraid of grocery bags and if he encountered one caught in a tree the moment it rustled in the wind all 112lbs of him would be cowering behind Cari or I begging us to kill the scary bag.
He constantly picked up sticks, sand, pinecones and rocks in his thick fur coat during his exploits outside only to somehow mysteriously shed all his treasures as he walked through the house. His head smelled like a dairy barn. I have no idea why but it did. He snored and he was flatulent. One night he set off our carbon monoxide detector with one of his Silent Giants.
Despite these shortcomings, in my eyes he was the best dog in the world. He was my best friend. He was a great judge of character. He was fiercely loyal and protective and if he had to, he probably would have even defended me against any plastic bag that threatened my safety.
On our hobby farm, he was my constant companion as I worked in the gardens. If the coyotes started to howl or a neighbour shot off a Bear Banger, he would be at my side in a flash ready to protect me. Even on the days when everything was quiet, I would look up from my work to find him lying on the septic field, which offered the best vantage point to watch over his charges. His head would be raised, his gaze focused on his flock in which I was a member. When the wind would catch his substantial mane of white hair blowing it back from his proud face he looked like a lion.
I still can't write about the details of his final day with us. He did pass at home, outside under the trees that he loved with Cari and me by his side.
So, my dearest Bear, Shmeardle Beardle, Poodle Head, Schmoodie, Stinky Bum, months later I still miss you so very much and grieve the sight of your empty food bowls and your collar placed in reverence on a shelf.
Cari and I thank you for the precious eight years you blessed us with your presence.
